Today's poem is by Felicia Mitchell


You can see us here, drifters,
three entire continents of emotions
under one single roof. More, if you count
relatives scattered here and there like islands:

one grandma who speaks a foreign language,
the language of the old,
and a grandpa worn soft by nine decades of erosion.

Our edges are not as smooth as theirs.
Sometimes I feel like the Rock of Gibraltar,
both tourist attraction and gate to the underworld.
My words are as sharp as rocks.

Across the room, my son is a Florida key,
separated from me by 300 million years
instead of forty. I want to hold him
until he forgets I am made of flesh and bone.

My husband is nothing if not Antarctica.
The other day, I looked into his eyes and saw ferns.
Fossilized, they spoke volumes,
the words coming out of his eyes
instead of a mouth that clammed shut
as he watched his wife and son fight—
breaking plates as if they were just china.

There was a time when we were a supercontinent,
There was a time when I let the water crash at my feet,
inviting father and son to splash in it.

Look at us now, just spilling off the map.

Copyright © 2014 Felicia Mitchell All rights reserved
from Waltzing with Horses
Press 53
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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